A Dance of Fang and Claw: The Ranger Archives Volume 3, page 18
In the basement, where the largest room almost mirrored that above, Doran whistled into the gloom. “Ye humans ’ave no idea how to build anythin’, but this is a damned good bit o’ space. How does somethin’ this big jus’ get abandoned?”
Asher had no intention of getting into the specifics of the building’s history or that the deeds belonged to him. “Humans are good at losing track of things,” he said, playing on the dwarf’s view of Illian’s inhabitants.
Doran chuckled to himself. “Ain’ that the truth?”
A moment later and Russell descended the stairs to join them, his considerable frame reducing the size of the room. “I can still smell them,” he reported. “Their stench lingers as if commanded to.”
“Best be keepin’ comments like that to yerself,” Doran warned. “It jus’ reminds me what ye are.”
Maybury tensed, his chest rising and jaw firming. “If you think you have the stones, Master Heavybelly, I’ll let you have the first swing.”
Asher was impressed by the menacing tone, though not nearly as much as Doran. “Maybe we’ll make a ranger out o’ ye yet, laddy! An’ don’ worry, big fella, when it comes time, I won’ need any more than the first swing to get the job done.”
Russell didn’t move, his gaze transfixed on the dwarf. Asher could see that the man’s knuckles had whitened, the blood forced away by his knotted fists. “They’re just words, Maybury,” the ranger reminded him. “You’re going to have to get thicker skin.”
“Wait until the full moon,” Doran remarked offhandedly, turning to the rest of the room, “then his skin will be plenty thick.”
Russell started forward until six foot of Asher was standing in his way, a single hand pressed into his chest. “Stop,” he commanded. “And you too!” he added, whipping his head around to the son of Dorain. “Stop!” he decreed, that one word enough to convey his meaning.
“Bah!” the dwarf grumbled, waving a hand at the whole situation. “It’s damned cold down ’ere. Asher, do yer thing an’ get the fire goin’ would ye?”
The ranger waited a moment, specifically waiting to feel some of the tension drain from Russell’s body. Only then did he move away from the man and address Doran’s request. “Any of us can get a fire going, Heavybelly,” he said, and deliberately so, for the son of Dorain was referring to the black gem and its unusual abilities—neither of which were known to Maybury.
“Oh,” Doran replied flatly, perhaps remembering that he had sworn to keep the gem’s existence a secret. “Aye, right.”
“I will see to the fire,” Russell offered gruffly, marching past Doran.
Before the dwarf could make any kind of comment, Asher retrieved A Chronicle of Monsters: A Ranger’s Bestiary from beside his bed roll. “Here.” He handed the book to Heavybelly, the pages open to the Vorska.
One bushy eyebrow arched into Doran’s forehead. “If ye brought me ’ere jus’ to read a book, Asher, ye might need to rethink what ye know abou’ me.”
The ranger sighed and took the book back. “Dwarves,” he muttered, finding rest in one of the dusty armchairs. “These are the words of Dobrin Vansorg,” he began. “Vorska: These monsters have gone by many names over the centuries. Your great grandparents likely called them Vampeer or Vampire. Before that, they were Gorgers and Blood Fiends. Whatever you wish to call them, know this: they are the real hunters. They have been preying on humanity since the dawn of time—”
“What does that even mean?” Doran interjected. “The dawn o’ time!” he mocked. “Me kin ’ave walked Grarfath’s hard earth far longer than yer own people, an’ I’ve never heard o’ any o’ those things ye jus’ named.”
Asher gave no response but to maintain his level gaze with the dwarf. “Should you cross them in the light of day,” he continued, “you will see their true appearance and what a monstrosity they are, their nightmarish features forged in the pits of the lowest hell. But, by night, they will appear as the most beautiful person you could imagine. They will charm their victims into seclusion before their beastly tongue drains them of blood.”
“Wait,” Heavybelly pleaded, settling into one of the other chairs. “They look like monsters durin’ the day an’ people at night? I’ve never known any beast capable o’ such a feat. I suppose the closest would be…” Doran trailed off as his eyes drifted towards Russell and the small flames he had started.
“Indeed,” Asher breathed. “Silver, my friends,” he read. “They abhor its touch. Use this to reveal them, then take their head with a good piece of steel.”
“It’s as simple as that then?” Doran asked, genuinely surprised.
“If only it was,” Asher replied, letting the book rest on his lap. “I’ve read this multiple times and found it lacking where my own experiences lie.”
“Ye said ye faced one in Kelp Town.”
“I did, and I put a good piece of steel right through its head. Yet I saw the same creature in Sable’s Tavern only days ago.”
Doran licked his lips and glanced at Asher. “Ye ran its head through an’ it didn’ die? What manner o’ demon are we dealin’ with ’ere?”
“That’s just it,” the ranger explained, “I thought it was dead. I buried my knife in its skull and the fight ended. I’ve seen more than my fair share of death. I was convinced.”
Heavybelly gave an overly dramatic shrug. “Well, if rammin’ a blade through their brain don’ kill ’em then what will? Silver? Who carries silver on ’em?”
Asher gestured at the book. “There’s mention of fire, but not much else.”
“It could be,” Russell pointed out, “Dobrin Vansorg meant to write that a good piece of steel is needed to cut off their head. There’s not much that can survive that. Is there?” His question reminded Asher of how much training the man required.
“Decapitation an’ fire will kill most things,” Doran informed cheerily.
Russell seemed happy to hear it. “You said it appeared dead, in my home. Doesn’t that suggest it needs its brain, even if your blow wasn’t enough to kill it?”
“Aye, he’s got a point,” Heavybelly agreed. “Maybe decapitation is the answer.”
“It’s a sound theory,” Asher muttered, his attention circling the bestiary. “There’s no description of pain either.”
“Should there be?” Maybury asked.
“The Vorska I fought in Kelp Town…” Asher trailed off, recalling the violent encounter. “I maimed it again and again yet it felt no pain. It just kept coming.”
“Maybe the answers can’ be found in yer fancy book,” Doran told him, retrieving a pipe from his pocket.
Asher eyed the dwarf. “Perhaps.”
“An’ ye say they’ve jus’…” Doran paused while he lit his pipe. “Disappeared?”
The ranger was shaking his head. “That woman’s body the watch found would suggest otherwise. They’re still hunting in Lirian. They’ve just abandoned their hunt of us.”
The dwarf exhaled a cloud of smoke into the room. “I thought they were after some ball, the one ye mentioned.”
“After meeting Merith I would say their desire for it is great. I don’t understand why they would cease their attempts to claim it.”
“Maybe they got wind o’ me an’ thought better o’ it,” Doran grinned.
Asher’s amusement was cut short when Doran went on to make a demand of Russell. “Let’s see it then—this orb.”
Seated by the fire, Russell became unnervingly still, his hard gaze locked on the son of Dorain.
Doran frowned. “Why’s he lookin’ at me like that?” he asked Asher, his own gaze never straying from Maybury.
The ranger closed the bestiary and moved to the edge of his chair. “It seems to be some kind of constraint left by the one who bit him. They never exchanged any words, but the wolf who gave him the orb was apparently very attached to it. It seems Werewolves can transfer their desires into the ones they sire.”
“Handy,” Doran opined, his pipe clasped between his teeth. “Well ye can stop lookin’ at me like that now,” he told Russell bluntly. “I want to see this thing, not take it from ye.”
“Russell,” Asher said quietly, but firmly. Maybury didn’t change a thing about his rigid posture. Worse still, his gaze became all the more predatory.
“Asher,” Doran voiced. “If he tries somethin’ foolish I’m goin’ to put ’im down for good.”
The ranger did the only thing he could—again—and stood up to put himself physically between them. “Perhaps now,” he suggested, “would be a good time to send that raven.”
The son of Dorain looked up at him, unable to see his potential foe. “Aye,” he grumbled, rising to his feet. “I think ye’re right. The sooner we get this done the sooner ye can see that I’m right. Ye don’ put Lycans in cages, Asher.” The dwarf paused at the bottom step and looked back over one shoulder. “Ye kill ’em, like everythin’ else.”
Chapter 15
A Fool’s Hope
Moss Fiends - Irritating buggers, though irritating is perhaps too harmless a word. Do not get me wrong, for a single Moss Fiend is capable of killing a man. It’s just that such a man would have to be uninitiated in the ways of the sword.
These creatures prefer to hide in forests, though some have been found in fields and across the plains of Alborn. You won’t even know you’re looking at one, and especially from afar. The bulk of their body is covered in some kind of false moss that lends them the appearance of a small and natural mound.
When close enough, they will explode from their apparent hiding place on six pale legs and spit venom from their spider-like head. The venom isn’t deadly to humans but it will still irritate your eyes and even blind you for a time.
Personally, I have found it quite satisfying to use flaming arrows from afar while they remain in ‘hiding’.
A Chronicle of Monsters: A Ranger’s Bestiary, 12th Edition, Page 216.
Old Carduune, Ranger.
Though winter’s days were short, the days that followed felt an eternity before word returned from Darkwell, the parchment lined with dwarven glyphs and signed with Danagarr Stormshield’s name. More importantly, it had returned with his promise to meet them in Lirian.
Asher hated the waiting, which he found ironic considering how much waiting had been required of him during his years as an Arakesh. Days, weeks, even months could be spent tracking down a target or monitoring them for the perfect window of execution.
Of course, with every day that passed, they grew closer to the wolf’s return. Russell’s mood became noticeably worse, though whether that could be attributed to his curse or Doran’s presence was debatable. More often than not, the two butted heads, and over trivial words no less, forcing Asher to intervene.
And, all the while, the bodies were mounting up. Asher had secretly investigated them all, some even in the guise of a watchman, and discovered that every man and woman who had fallen victim across the city bore the tell-tale markings of the Vorska’s fangs and tongue.
Yet they never once assaulted The Ranch. It had become a fact that disturbed Asher all the more.
“He needs somethin’ to take his mind off it,” Doran said early the next morning. “He’s only a few days from the moon. There’s only so much he can sweep an’ dust an’ fix in ’ere.”
“What did you have in mind?” Asher asked.
“Well,” the dwarf began dryly, “we’ve sampled what feels like every tavern in the city an’ spoken to everyone an’ anyone who might be able to source the materials we need.” He shrugged his rounded shoulders, currently absent the usual black and gold pauldrons. “He wants to be a ranger, aye? Let’s see what he’s got.”
Asher knew that mischievous grin. “You wish to fight him,” he reasoned.
“He’s a miner,” Doran pointed out. “It ain’ goin’ to be a fight. He needs trainin’. Besides, it will give ’im somethin’ to think abou’. He can’ move past the next few days, but he could do with lookin’ to the future a bit.”
The ranger observed the dwarf a moment longer. “Are you actually trying to help him?”
“O’ course not,” Doran argued. “I’m mostly jus’ itchin’ for a fight an’ the sight o’ ’im sets me off.”
That made more sense to Asher. “You’ll have to take him out and buy a sword first.” Aware that Doran would never part with his coin for Russell, the ranger tossed him a small purse. “I want some of that back,” he added.
“I make no promises, ranger man!”
Now, a little over an hour later, Asher was seated atop an old barrel in the private courtyard behind The Ranch. He didn’t like what he was seeing.
“What’s that?” he questioned, pointing at the pick-axe in Russell’s hand.
“I tried to tell ’im,” Doran said with a hopeless shrug. “Took ’im to Smithy’s on Kyvern—had the pick o’ the lot. Nothin’. Then,” he added, shaking his head, “he saw that outside the supply shop round the corner.”
“That’s not a weapon,” Asher remarked. “It’s a tool.”
Maybury took on a defensive posture, his large hand tightening around the haft. “I know what I’m doing with it,” he protested. “I’ve been handling them since I was a boy. And trust me, I’ve got into plenty of scraps with a pick-axe in hand. They’re perfectly good weapons.”
Asher wasn’t convinced, his eyes shifting across to the dwarf as if to lay the blame on him.
“Don’ look at me! I once saw ye kill a Royal Gobber with a blasted ladle! Compared to that, this is a battle-axe o’ pure silvyr!”
“You said you would train me,” Russell stated, his gaze unwavering. “Are you saying you can’t if I wield a pick-axe?”
Doran began to laugh, turning back to move into the open space of the courtyard. “He’s got ye there, laddy! Why don’ ye look at this the way I do? When the time comes to put him in the dirt, gettin’ past a pick-axe’ll be easy!”
A disgruntled sound rumbled from deep in Russell’s throat. He pivoted on his heel and marched into the open space to oppose the son of Dorain, his boots crunching through the snow. With no more than trousers and a loose-fitting shirt, he was a stark contrast to the dwarf, who had donned a tightly-fitted jacket to keep out the cold and retained his armoured cuisses around his thighs. Then there were his weapons—a sword and axe of Danagarr’s making—vastly superior to any pick-axe.
“Two weapons?” Maybury voiced, seeing inequity.
“Aye,” Doran replied. “If ye’re to face monsters then ye’re to face their claws.”
“Technique,” Asher called out before the fight began. “It is the cornerstone of combat. It will always overcome brute strength. If you truly wish to learn, Russell, then hold back. Look for the openings and strike. Keep your feet moving.”
“A’right! Enough talk. Let’s get to the trainin’.” The grin that followed Heavybelly’s interruption spoke of his eagerness.
Asher sighed and reached for his pipe, deciding that the pair just needed to hit each other for a while if they were to survive each other.
Man and dwarf charged, kicking up snow in their wake. Maybury was the quicker of the two, closing the gap in powerful strides. It seemed a foolish thing to the ranger, who knew Doran had only to swing his axe and end the fight in bloodshed. Displaying some of the skill he boasted, Russell turned his charge into an unpredictable manoeuvre, sliding the last few feet on his hip, the pick-axe extended to take out the dwarf’s legs.
The son of Dorain swore upon realising what was happening. Rather than be tripped, he opted to dive over the weapon and roll across the courtyard. Likely out of anger, if not embarrassment, Doran emerged from his roll and launched his axe at his opponent.
“Doran!” Asher chastised, pausing in igniting his pipe.
The axe would have split Maybury’s head down the middle, Doran’s aim dangerously true, but Russell’s advantage in fighting any monster would be his reflexes, which were far more excitable than that of an ordinary man. Or dwarf. Displaying as much, he shifted his shoulders, twisting at the hip, and merely watched the axe fly past his face and lodge itself in one of the stone pillars that surrounded the courtyard.
“Control!” Asher yelled, hoping to break through the red mist that had overcome the fighters. “Combat requires control. Holding back is harder than letting go, but you’ll learn nothing with savagery.”
Doran rose from his crouch, sword scraping deliberately across the stone floor. “Ye’ve nothin’ to teach me, Asher. I was bred for war,” he remarked darkly.
“You’re not to kill each other,” the ranger reminded sternly, though mostly it was said for the dwarf’s ears.
“A’right, a’right.” Doran waved Asher away. “Ye heard ’im wolf! Technique. Control.” A short sharp bark of laughter escaped the son of Dorain’s lips. “I don’ think they go well with a bloody pick-axe!”
Asher refrained from intervening, wishing to see how Russell would react to the jibe. Impressing the ranger somewhat, the miner adjusted his grip to hold the pick-axe upright at chest level, two hands grasping the haft as if he wielded a longsword. There seemed a measure of control about his expression, a hardening to words that would have fuelled his rage a few days ago.
Then Doran howled at the sky as if he were a wolf.
The armour of discipline was shattered and Maybury leapt at his enemy. The pick-axe arced high and hammered down again and again, each swing missing its target by inches as Doran’s footwork saw to his survival. By the third swing, the dwarf had formulated his counterattack. As the tip of the pick impacted the stone, Heavybelly pivoted and rounded his sword under the haft, catching the inside corner of the pick with enough force to tug it forward; bringing Russell with it.
The big man fell flat on his front, one hand still clasped to the haft of his weapon. To the sound of dwarven laughter, Doran shoved the sole of his boot into the side of Maybury’s head and sent him rolling away. With a feral look in his eyes, the wolf rose from the floor with a scuff across his cheek and a cut marring his chin.
